What She Heard

She called herself a perfectionist yet nothing about her was perfect. Wandering in her own mind, she walked the steps of broken knowledge. Ones just above the surface but not yet retained. That’s how most necessities drifted away and left in their own direction. In closed quarters, she stayed there for hours alone in the forest, feeding a pond full of fish or picking dandelions from a field of weeds. The breeze would drift through her dark hair, blending in with a world that turned dark with memories that were meant to be forgotten.

Never was she the center of a discussion and instead she chose to observe each day. A chorus of voices, she heard it all, taking it in and connecting the dots like constellations in a desert sky. She was told it was a form of beauty, to remember. A growing aspect as she filed away and could repeat the words of another. But what about her own? Too afraid that no one would hear. It was lost and blown to pieces falling down like rain.

With careful delicate fingers, music flooded the house. She smiled. Here is where her emotions went. Not through words but a type of music, so fine it made sad mothers weep tears of joy. She sat, staring out the clouded window. The scenery here was never ideal. In fact, without paying close enough attention, it could be said there was no scenery, just an overdeveloped society with no space to breathe. The music wasn’t just her own expression but an expression of the people she remembered. Thoughts that clouded her head were transposed onto a page. Notes were scattered to create a story. A story that was not meant to be understood but heard.